


deScent

by catratbatsnake



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Amortentia, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-28
Updated: 2016-07-28
Packaged: 2018-07-27 07:20:08
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,233
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7608943
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/catratbatsnake/pseuds/catratbatsnake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco is so far gone and doesn't know it; Hermione is on the warpath. Sixth year - canon divergent.</p>
<p>From this prompt on tumblr -> http://dr-aco.tumblr.com/post/147165700400/ok-but-hermione-secretly-brewing-amortentia-in</p>
            </blockquote>





	deScent

Hermione Granger used the tip of her owl-feather quill to tuck a wayward curl behind her ear. Although having it in front of her eyes could be considered an advantage, given what her peripheral vision was picking up to her left. She tried to stay looking directly at the blackboard, but really, Professor Flitwick could only reach to write on the bottom half, and she’d already learned everything there was to know about Distracting Charms, and most of the material from the following chapter, from her reading the previous night. Hermione huffed a small sigh, realising her gaze had wandered once again to the left hand side of the classroom, where an irritating patch of orange could be seen inappropriately close to an area that could only be described as a rotten shade of brown. Oh, was she fed up with this.

Gryffindor Tower was too hot, and full of chatter and noise. Hermione wasn't entirely sure whether it was louder than usual or if it just seemed that way thanks to her headache, but she tried her best to make her way to the dormitory staircase as swiftly as possible and without making eye contact with anyone. Or even looking at anyone at all - especially if they had short ginger hair. She really needed to have her curtains drawn before certain other residents of the dorm came up to bed, too. _Not that that will be especially early_ , she thought bitterly to herself. Only - 

“‘Mione?” She paused at the sound of her best friend’s voice, turning on the spot to face him in one of the armchairs close to the fire. “Please can you help me with the essay for Slughorn that’s due Friday?”

Hermione sighed inwardly. “Is that Prince of yours no use?” she asked, but her voice sounded tired rather than snarky even to her own ears, and her feet seemed automatically to be carrying her over to where Harry sat. Slumped over his books, he looked almost as worn out as she felt.

Harry shook his head morosely, scooting over so that she could sit on the arm of his chair and put her feet on the seat. “The Prince is brilliant for practical tips, but he’s absolute hippogriff crap when it comes to theory. I think he just knew it all as second nature, to be honest.” He yawned, “And I’m sure Slug went through it all in class today, but for some reason I think I was really distracted”. Stifling a yawn herself, Hermione stole a slightly screwed-up piece of parchment from the jumble of books and study supplies on her best friend’s lap, smoothed it out, and began to jot down a few notes on the theory of Persuasion Potions. “Cheers, Hermione,” Harry mumbled, dropping half a Cauldron Cake into her upturned left hand and stuffing the rest into his own mouth, “You’re the best.”.

Later, mind still buzzing with the increased blood sugar and the different ways in which varying the amount and form of Persian Miquixito Wings could affect the strength and nature of a Persuasion Potion, Hermione made her way to the spiral staircase that would take her to bed. Eagerly anticipating her duvet and some light reading - she’d just sunk her teeth into a tome on Aztec magic that had been a Christmas present - she realised too late that the common room had emptied somewhat. Which meant she was at greater risk of encountering - 

“Oh, Won-won” Lavender Brown’s too-high voice scratched at her ears. Thestral-shit-brown eyes gazed at the Gryffindor Quidditch Team’s Keeper, whose ocean-blue pair appeared equally wide, if focused somewhat on the girl’s frankly excessive endowment.

Hermione narrowly restrained the urge to gag, if only because someone had to uphold a shred of public decency, and stalked off to bed, stormclouds in her eyes.

If Double Potions with Snape had felt like torture, it was nothing compared to this. The Dungeon was overheated and stuffy with the boiling of too may cauldrons, the steam rising off the bubbling Distraction Draughts was verging on hallucinogenic, and, worst of all, Slughorn had insisted on putting the whole class into pairs. To do a project on this potion for four whole lessons. And Hermione had been put with one truly delightful young lady who went by the name of Lavender Brown. If Hermione believed in the Fate, she would have suspected it of laughing at her.

Speaking of Fate, the delightful Miss Brown was mucking about with her tarot cards again. Airhead. She was probably hoping they’d show Hermione dying a slow and painful death by book poisoning, or something. Just for a moment, Hermione let herself wonder what was in all that makeup Lavender caked on every morning. Anything that colour couldn’t be good, surely?

Just then, a half-whispered “‘Mione?” caught her attention. She dropped the Lapiscotti beans she’d so carefully sliced into the cauldron, stirred it once with a glass rod, and turned to face the row of workstations behind. Harry was perched on the edge of his, cradling his right hand. “Please can you heal me? It’s only tiny, I swear, but it’s my wand hand”.

“What happened?” she asked, curious as to how he’d cut his own dominant hand.

“I wasn’t really focusing, and I hit my hand against the desk, only it got the blade instead.” Harry’s mind was clearly elsewhere.

“Lift it above your heart, and then release the pressure.” She stood on tiptoes to draw the tip of her wand slowly across the cut, watching the skin knit itself back together.

Her best friend offered a strained smile. “Thanks, Hermione. You’re the best.” There was a crash from behind Harry. “I suppose I'd better get back to the Ferret, before he tries to hex me for looking daft or something,” he sighed.

Hermione frowned to herself as she turned back to her own workstation. Harry really did seem distracted. She knew he’d never worked well with Malfoy, but she wondered what the Slytherin must have said to get to her best friend that way. The potion was exactly as she’d hoped - a vile shade of pale pink that would’ve made Umbridge proud - and she reached for her textbook to double-check the next stage. Except that her eyes didn’t meet the textbook. No, because standing over _her_ potions bench was one Ronald Weasley. Holding hands with her lab partner, who was making those vile doe-shit eyes at him. Oh, for the sakes of Merlin, Barack Obama, and all else that is holy, this had to stop. This had to stop right now.

Sitting on the floor of the sixth-yeah girls’ showers in her cat pyjamas, shrouded by a web of Silencing Charms, Hermione couldn’t help smiling at the memory of brewing Polyjuice to try and find out whether Draco Malfoy really was the Heir of Slytherin, way back in her Second Year. Oh, how far they’d come. Well, how far she and Harry had, anyhow. Ron had apparently regressed. Luckily, this sweet little potion only took just under two hours - rather than an entire month - to brew, however. She wasn't sure she could’ve survived another month of this.

On Monday morning Hermione woke up at precisely seven o’clock, as usual, resisted the urge to read another chapter or two about Aztec rituals to harness the power of the moon, as usual, and took a shower, as usual. When she got dressed, however, she swapped her usual neutral musk for a light misting from a small, deep purple bottle. Hopefully, the residual post-shower moisture on her skin would be enough to activate the final step of the process. When Seamus looked up and said, Irish accent thick with sleep, “Morning Dea - oh, hello Hermione”, as she approached the breakfast table, she couldn't quite suppress a small smile. The first part of the plan had worked, then.

Seamus may have been the first to react, but he certainly wasn't the only one. Hermione observed the eyes of a number of students widening as they passed her in the corridor, felt the pressure of stares as she nibbled nonchalantly on a slice of pizza in the Great Hall at lunchtime, and, on one occasion, had to restrain a laugh at the sight of a third-year Ravenclaw boy flushing red as a Quaffle when she passed him in the corridor on her way to Charms. She supposed it was to be expected: the specific brew of Amortentia she’d sprayed on as perfume was a careful hybrid of two recipes: one that smelled of your greatest desire, the other of the scent you were most sexually attracted to. And the cherry on her personal cake was the fact that the spray bottle containing it was one that Lavender herself had previously thrown away. Hermione had noted, slightly smugly, that the girl seemed to get through an awful lot of perfume.

By Thursday lunchtime, before her weekly Double Potions class, Hermione had turned down five seventh-year boys, Padma Patil, Theodore Nott, seven fifth year-boys, three fifth-year girls, eight different fourth-years, and about six students from the younger years whose exact age she couldn't tell. She’d also used her Prefect powers to confiscate nine different cameras that she’d discovered being pointed at her in the corridors. Honestly, all of this attention was just such a hassle. Although the idea of dating that rather attractive seventh-year who played Keeper for Ravenclaw was somewhat tempting, if only for its potential to piss Ron off, once she finally got near enough to him for it to take effect without being physically repulsed.

As Draco Malfoy grudgingly made his way to Potions that afternoon - honestly, why did Slughorn have to go and ruin his favourite subject for him? - he noticed some commotion in the corridor outside the Dungeon. Students of all years seemed to be gathered around Granger, vying for her attention, while she ignored them in favour of conversing with Potter. How anyone could even manage to hold a conversation with that messy-haired, braindead idiot was beyond Draco. The supposed Saviour didn’t appear capable of stringing so much as a sentence together.

Curious to find out what was so exciting about two dull, goody-goody Gryffindors, Draco attempted to slide his way through the crowd that was forming. Frustrated by the melee of students trying to shove their way forward, he eventually resorted to announcing loudly, in his haughtiest Prefect voice, that “Any student causing mayhem in the Potions corridor should make their way to lessons immediately, or find themselves devoid of house points.” Honestly, there was no way he was half as irritating as that, even in First Year.

As Draco approached, the only vaguely interesting happening he could detect was the fact that Potter absolutely stank today. Although the Potter Stinks badges he’d made back in Fourth Year had been designed primarily to humiliate the second Hogwarts Champion, there was a grain of truth in the message. Wait, did Granger stink of Potter too? Well, that was just plain weird.

“Resorted to stinking like the Boy Who Lives To Grab Attention as a way to get some for yourself, Granger?” Draco layered on his trademark snark. “I have to say, it seems to work better for you than it does for him. Poor Potty probably feels all left out now, don’t you?”.

Granger’s eyes widened for a fraction of a second, before she let out a soft “Oh!”. Potter merely looked confused, which Draco supposed wasn't all that unusual, really. His opportunity to be snide was cruelly dashed by Slughorn calling them into class.

  


_Malfoy,_

_One of the parchment squares attached to this letter has been sprayed with a sample of my perfume. The other is a sample of Harry Potter’s scent. I will confirm to you which is which at 9 this evening, in the third floor Transfiguration classroom. Don’t worry; your secret is safe._

_Regards, Hermione Granger_

  


Hermione attached the parchment squares to either edge of the letter using two Muggle paperclips shaped like snails. She was rather fond of paperclips: they kept things organised without getting in the way, they came in all sorts of colours and sizes and shapes, and they could be made to work for all kinds of uses beyond holding paper if one really needed them to. One tap of her wand and a whispered spell was all it took to fold the note and send it scuttling subtly across the Dungeon floor and into the pocket of Draco Malfoy’s leather satchel.

It was with some trepidation that Draco Malfoy made his way to the Third Floor that evening. Thursday night was the Gryffindor Quidditch Team’s regular practice session, and as a senior player for his own house, it was only sensible to watch their number one rival train. After all, who in their right mind would turn down the opportunity to gain knowledge of their enemy’s tactics? Draco would probably never admit, even to himself, that he also found Thursday evenings strangely arousing.

At precisely one minute to nine (a Malfoy is never unduly tardy, his mother always said) Draco pushed open the Transfiguration classroom’s heavy wooden door. Granger was already inside. He was slightly surprised to note that she no longer smelled strongly of Potter - from what Draco could make out, it was roses or raindrops or something. The urge to make a snarky remark about her having washed was almost a reflex, but he sensed that might not be the most sensible move.

“Granger.”

“Malfoy.” Her tone was almost pitying, and Draco briefly reconsidered his decision not to comment on her scent. “Are you aware of the nature of the scent I was wearing earlier?”

Draco did his best to give her a hard stare, but his mind was too busy chewing through the details of their exchange, in person and on paper, searching for the final puzzle piece. Or any of the pieces, really. “Er..”

To his faint surprise, her smile didn’t actually get any more smug than usual at his admission. “It’s basically Amortentia.”

He stared at her. “Excuse me?”

“I’ve been wearing Amortentia in a sort of perfume form. It’s essentially a potion that each person perceives as smelling like their deepest desires - the things they love or are attracted to the most.”

Draco was cross, now. “I know that, Granger. But what does it have to do with-“

“You thought my Amortentia smelled like Harry.”

Oh. _Oh_.

“This has to be coincidence!” Draco knew he sounded desperate, even to his own ears.

“That a potion specifically designed to smell like your deepest desires and sexual wants smelled like Harry Potter to you? I don’t think so” Granger was definitely smug now, although she did sound a tiny bit worried too.

“But…But…” Words didn't seem to want to cooperate for him. “I don't fancy Potter!” he blurted out. Granger gave him a knowing smile, slightly too reminiscent of the Cheshire Cat. Or perhaps a tiger stalking its prey.

Draco put his head on the desk and groaned. No. _No_. This all had to be some sort of horrible nightmare. He’d had carrots at dinner, maybe they’d caused some form of hallucination.

But even as he cursed the blasted carrots to eternal damnation, images of Potter danced infuriatingly in front of Draco’s eyelids. Potter on a broom, Potter with that terrible hair all wet from the rain, Potter frowning at his Transfiguration essays, Potter sweaty and full of adrenaline from casting spell after spell in Defence, those intense green eyes sucking him in from across the Great Hall. Draco groaned again the realisation that he could not only conjure all of these images from memory, but that he wanted to reach out and _touch_ them all, too. Ugh.

“It’s alright” Granger began softly, “I’m sure he’d warm to you if you tried being a little more friendly toward him”.

_Ugh_. Draco couldn't decide which was worse, the idea of being pleasant to Potter, or the fact that Granger, of all people, and figured out that he had a crush on the idiot before even Draco had. Oh, Merlin’s soggy underpants, was he thinking of it as a crush already? Looking critically, he’d been thinking this way since at least Fourth Year. Actually, Draco couldn't think of any other member of the school that he could identify by scent alone. Potter didn't even smell _bad_. In fact, it was quite attractive. Merlin and Morgana frolicking in a merry meadow, he thought Potter was attractive. Okay, Granger figuring it out before him was definitely the worse of the two, because being pleasant to Potter might lead to Potter letting Draco _touch_ him…

“Are you alright?” Granger sounded worried, now.

_No_ , Draco wanted to say, _No, I am not alright, I have fallen off a cliff for Harry fucking Potter and I am Doomed_. “Yeah” he said softly, lifting his head off the table.

Granger was clearly restraining her best Knowing Smile. “Does he know?”

She shook her head. Draco’s relief was audible. “Harry’s my best friend, but he wouldn't pick up on that kind of thing if it hit him around the face. And he’d probably think I was joking if I told him, anyhow.”

Harry? Oh, somehow that made him seem more… real, and imperfect, and beautiful.

“Why are you wearing love potion as scent, in any case?” Draco tried to sound causal. 

Granger spluttered slightly. “Revenge.”

Draco didn’t realise Gryffindors knew the meaning of that word. Well, maybe apart from Potter. But there had always been something different about Potter -

“Wait, does he, I mean, does Potte-, I mean, I mean, does he know you’ve been, you know-“

The smile crept back to Granger’s lips. “No, Harry doesn’t know what I’ve been wearing as perfume. He thought you were just acting slightly more weirdly than usual earlier. He did remark that the entire corridor smelled particularly nice, though.”

“I’m not weird!” Draco huffed indignantly. “Smothering oneself in love potion to try and exact revenge is weird!”

Granger flushed again; Draco smirked. “I think it’s rather more subtle than some of _your_ previous strategies, actually, Malfoy.”

“What’s your grand strategy, make them fall for you and then publicly humiliate them by turning them down? Who even is this?”

“If it comes to that, yes. My min objective is to break up his current relationship by making him realise what he’s missing out on, however.” Granger’s eyes were bright, “And that bitch of his, she’ll pay, the superficial, airheaded bint”.

This strategy was growing on Draco. Images of Potter dating other less worthy people - the Weasley bitch, for instance, or that stupid Gryffindor one from potions that appeared to have more tarot cards than brain cells. “So you fancy him, then?”

“I - er - yes, I suppose so,” Granger admitted, “Although he does need to grow up a bit.” Her eyes dropped to the floor, suddenly downcast, “He used to be one of my best friends, but he doesn't seem to care any more, and I can’t stand the sight of him with - with _her._ ”

A terrible, awful, atrocious thought suddenly manifested itself in Draco’s mind. He tried to force it away, to convince himself that it was just unfounded paranoia. Granger clearly wasn't talking about Potter.

Granger was directing that concerned look at him again, though. “It’s not - you don’t mean Potter?” Surely not.

She laughed. “I love Harry to pieces, but not in that way. Although Ron is also one of his best friends.”

Draco was so busy being relieved that he almost didn't notice the nugget of information she’d let slip. “As in…The Weasel?”

Face flaming, she nodded.

“Oh dear…I agree, that tart he’s all over does seem a bit low down the food chain, even for him.” Than got him a smile. 

Granger pushed her bushy hair unceremoniously out of her eyes, managing to check her wristwatch in the same fluid movement. “Well, Malfoy, it’s been lovely catching up with you, but I’m afraid I ought to get back to Gryffindor Tower before I have to give myself detention for being out after curfew.” She paused a moment, thought written all over her face. “Since we’ve both learned something new about each other this evening, how about this: I’ll help you with Harry, if you keep your mouth shut about Ronald.” 

Draco shook her outstretched hand. “That sounds entirely reasonable, Granger.” Help with Potter? As in help getting a Potter? The thought was terrifying, but not entirely unwelcome.

With a flick of his wand to end the silencing spells they’d placed over the classroom door, Draco headed back down to the Slytherin Dungeons and his bed, before the evening could get any weirder.

The next weekend was a Hogsmeade weekend. Although the novelty of joke shops and butterbeer had worn off somewhat, at least for Draco, he found himself grudgingly submitting to Pansy and Blaise’s attempts to bully him into shoe shopping with them. After three hours standing in the same shop, watching Pansy try on what felt like every single pair of heels in existence while Blaise made scathing comments about their style, colour, material, whatever, he’d decided he could take no more, and excused himself to find a drink.

The Three Broomsticks was beyond crowded, as always, and no self-respecting human ever set foot in Madam Puddifoot’s without sunglasses and an agenda, which is how come Draco found himself approaching the relative peace of the Hog’s Head. The place was fairly quiet, a few of the booths filled by sixth- and seventh-years wanting some time away from the hustle and bustle of the rest of the village. 

“Malfoy! Hello!” A shrill voice called him from one of the tables near the bar. There were two other seats at her table - one occupied by a recalcitrant-looking Potter, and one that appeared conspicuously empty. 

“Er…” he began, frozen to the spot. “Granger, Potter, good day.” She was still beaming irritatingly at him. His feet began to move towards their table, not entirely at his direction.

“‘Lo, Malfoy.” Merlin, why was Potter so awkward?

“How did you find the last Prefects’ meeting?” Granger asked, still far too cheerful.

Some time, and several drinks - it turned out that the barman was yet another member of the Boy Who Lived Fan Club and would therefore serve Potter pretty much anything apart from firewhiskey - later, Draco spotted what appeared to be a blob of radioactive contamination approaching the inn’s grimy window. Actually, on second thoughts, it might have been a Weasley. He tapped Granger with his foot and nodded toward it, suddenly aware that this might be an opportunity to return the dubious favour she’d done him that afternoon.

“Can I trust you pair not to murder one another for five minutes?” Granger rose from her chair, tucking a small purple bottle into the pocket of her Muggle jeans. 

Strangely, Granger’s departure didn't seem to make things any more awkward. Until, that is, Potter drained the rest of his drink and lifted his head to stare straight at Draco. Draco could only return the gaze; what else was he supposed to do? Potter’s eyes were drawing him in, mesmerising.

“You’re notsho bad any more, Draaaaayco.” Potter slurred, smiling at him. Draco would have raised an eyebrow, had he not been almost as inebriated himself. That, and his heart felt like he’d just caught the snitch after a particularly steep dive. 

“Not too terrible yourself, these days, either” Draco hoped he didn’t sound as drunk as he felt. Potter leaned slightly closer.

“Huh… Are you wearing Hermione’s perfume?” Alarm was written all over Potter’s face.

Draco kissed him.

It was sloppy yet electric, wet and messy and perfect all at once. Potter tasted a bit like gin and a lot like something Draco’s brain couldn't describe. His lips were so _soft_ , and when a tongue brushed against his own lips, asking for entry, Draco’s body wouldn't have let him refuse even if he’d wanted to. He braced one hand on the table between them and half-stood, leaning closer, his right hand tangling in surprisingly silky black hair. One of Potter’s own hands trailed up and down Draco’s spine, almost causing him to arch it just a tiny bit.

There was a loud, embarrassed cough from somewhere to Draco’s left.

He could feel his face heating as he looked up, hand still on Potter’s shoulder. Ronald Weasley was stood there like a lemon, as usual, looking as though he couldn't decide whether to be incensed or gobsmacked. The bitch he’d been dating - Brown, Draco thought - was glaring not just daggers but jousting-lances at him, and looked very much as though she might slice up anyone she thought was taking away her boyfriend’s attention just now. Granger, on the other hand, beamed at Potter and Draco in turn, before directing a self-satisfied smirk at the Weaselbee and his flower. 

“I’m so sorry, boys, you’ll have to excuse me one moment.” Granger didn’t sound sorry, but then, Draco was’t exactly upset that she was otherwise engaged at this moment. 

“Actually, Hermione. Draco and I were just considering making our way back to the castle in a moment.”

Draco only just caught his jaw before it dropped all the way open. “Yeah, um, pleasure to see you.”

Potter grabbed Draco’s wrist and all-but dragged him out of the door.


End file.
